One of Nothing
by Whyntir
Summary: 1933-Adolf Hitler rose to power '34-Hitler became Führer '40-Hitler was assassinated '43-England Surrendered '49-USSR surrendered '50-The German Empire was created 2014-Year of Rebellion. Prussia is what they call him, his existance shrouded in lies.
1. Prologue

He lounged lazily in the chair, leaning on the back two legs. The room was dark, as cliché as that was; the table his boots were propped up on the only piece of furniture in the room. A lone, bare bulb illuminated the desk and him in the utter darkness. He blew out smoke between his pale lips, watching as it swirled away, up to the ceiling. Despite such a dark room, he wore sunglasses so thick they hid his eyes. Bringing the cig to his lips, he inhaled the arid smoke; the last mission had practically been a waste of time since it was only used as a way to make the company look good. Luckily they paid him for the trouble, but not as much as he would have liked. Eighteen-hundred would have to do though. One thing in this business: don't complain over what you get, that contract is your life. The door across from him finally opened and his boss sauntered in, taking a seat under the swaying bulb.

The man across the table didn't look like the boss of a Hitman Agency. He dressed in a nice suit and tie; the only showings of wealth were his platinum cufflinks and the matching tiepin, all in the shapes of an eighth note in music. His hair was combed over to one side, a stubborn cowlick accenting his appearance. A pair of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, framing dark violet eyes that bore into the endless black of his shades. His lips twitched, bringing attention to the dark mole not far below the courner of those thin lips. Roderich Edelstein was once renowned in the Underworld as the best Hitman money could buy; though as time went on he gathered enough money and acclaim to unionize the work under a dictator's hand. Any hired gun outside of Edelstein's reach was promptly eliminated to keep competition real low. All that was left were the bloodthirsty hounds inside the organization that killed off each other to get the next job. How lucky he was that he only scraped the bottom of the barrel, as all new recruits do. He had plenty of years under his belt before this hot-shot came along. Edelstein had nothing on him.

"You did well on that test round. Due to your undeniable skill, our client has agreed to use our services. You can pat yourself on the back for that one, but don't get cocky," Roderich informed him, the assassin sitting across from the brunette smirked and rubbed his jackboots together, flakes of dried mud falling on the desk top. Giving a reproachful glare, the superior continued on, "The man who hired you, and you by name, goes by the name Ivan Braginsky. He's the leader of a rebel group within Germany called the R.N.M, or the Russian Nationalist Movement. Three months ago a meeting between an R.N.M negotiator and the chief of the Nuremburg Police on the subject of a protection agreement was supposed to take place, but both parties were found assassinated. The details are hazy after that, but Mr. Braginsky is confident that one of his militia members is responsible for the leak. His first assignment is for you to assassinate this man. No civilian casualties."

A picture was flicked onto the table and the boots came down so he could lean over the photo. A Cuban man sat at an outside restraint table, a cigar in his mouth and hair pulled back in dreadlocks. Taking a mental picture, he took the ember of the cigarette and shoved it into the heart of the photograph. The paper smoldered and warped, turning brown, then black, the fag burning out entirely. "Consider it done."

* * *

><p>He sat on the top of an old apartment complex across the street from the Starbucks he had seen in the picture. No matter where one goes, America would worm their money-making sprees in even the vast German Empire. His black hood was pulled up over the white locks of hair; such distinct traits were best kept hidden on the job. Across the way, the target sat at a table, a large cigar in his mouth as he read the morning newspaper. He snuffed out the butt and placed it in his jacket pocket, Mr. González read the Headlines today, but little did he know he would be the Headline of tomorrow. Setting up the cheap .308 Winchester rifle he had been assigned for the mission, sliding on the TASCO scope and propping it up on his bipod, he entered the small world of the sharpshooter. The target rubbed the back of his head, pulling the smoke from his lips. His finger tightened ever so slightly and the kick pushed him back.<p>

There were screams as he packed up the rifle, and sauntered down the fire escape stairs on the back of the building. Shouts of curious residents and frightened witnesses cascaded around him as he slipped through the alleyways. Pulling out another fag and his lighter, he lit the butt and continued on his way. The image of the man was swiped over with a bloody 'X'. "Mission accomplished."

* * *

><p>"Oi, not gonna welcome me home brat?" he called as he stepped through the door, kicking off his jackboots and hanging up the jacket he wore to his jobs. The case was hidden far behind the coats on the racks and behind the many boxes that had somehow managed to get stacked in there. He could hear the other in the kitchen and the smell of sizzling wurst was welcoming after a rather uneventful day.<p>

"If you want to be greeted every time you step through the door," another man's voice called from around the courner, "buy yourself a dog or get married already."

"We already got _three_ dogs kid, and we have come to the conclusion that they all love you," he shouted back, smirking like an idiot. These banters were always fun. He crept around the way to see his younger brother cooking, wearing that pink apron he had bought the younger as a prank for his birthday. Hey, at least he used it.

The blonde was busy chopping up potatoes with his back towards the other, "Then go and find yourself a girl or something. I'm sure there's someone desperate enough-." He was cut off by the other's lips on his own, the pale cheeks becoming a bright red before he jabbed his elbow into the albino's ribs. "The hell Gilbert!"

"Aww, come on, no one saw. Besides, we _are_ brothers after all," he snickered, rubbing his bruised ribs. "Don't tell me you are so paranoid to think that the _Führer_ is hiding in our ceiling."

"Homosexuality is banned under the law; you and I both know that."

Gilbert t'sked his tongue as he shook his head, "Too bad, eh? That little Italian down the hall is so _fine_~."

"BROTHER! ARE YOU SUICIDAL!" the blonde exclaimed, pure horror across his features.

The albino winked, giving his Dare Devil grin, "Maybe I am, but at least I'll go out with a _bang_."


	2. Log 1: Abyss

The German Empire stretched from the former country of France, and onward, skirting pass free Switzerland, and reaching out to the former USSR. The power of control weakened as its hand spread over to the Ural Mountains. On the map, it dominated the world, staggering even the most belligerent of opponents to the Third Reich, unless they are Russian of course. Despite all odds, they somehow always mounted a resistance and caused a panic on the East Side. Yes, the Empire was split in two by a wall that ran from the origins of East Prussia cutting off the Aryan citizens that the Nazis held dear to those of mixed breeds and undesirables whose families had submitted under Nazi law and had been raised on the East end. The few times he had ever been allowed over to West Side, Gilbert had felt as though he had walked between two worlds.

East Side, also known as the Hornets' Nest from West Side, was a smelting pot of all Non-Aryan races, Poles, Russians, and Austrians could all live in the same building complex and interact peacefully with each other with the occasional, typical misunderstandings and such. But most of the time they got along seeing as the police officers were from the other side and made that quite clear which made the citizens their own law enforcement team. They even arranged their own government of sorts in each city; a council was elected from each of their respective populations per city to work in laws that did not transgress the laws of the federal government miles away in Berlin. Shops lined the streets in a great number of different languages from German to Polish to Russian, many mashing them all together in one window as advertisement. Still, that wasn't always needed since the inhabitants of East Side knew at least two languages, most being their native tongue and German. The buildings were shabby, falling apart, and not maintained by the government. The only think keeping some of the apartment complexes upright were the die-hard will of the inhabitants and their crudely welded patches of scrap metals. No cars roamed the streets since the metal was more useful elsewhere, not to mention they had no money for such luxuries, leaving them with low incomes and low standards of living. At least with the poor population came the dirt cheap products from the stores that accommodated the people who were overcrowded in their poor cities.

West Side was its own country. The buildings were maintained by the government and the roads were wide to house the hundreds of automobiles that hurried this way and that. It was Hitler's dream come true in every sense. The Nordics and Germans were interchangeable, many intermarrying and their countries were tied by diplomacy and Good Neighbor-ism. It was a sea of blonde hair and blue to green eyes. Of course, someone with white hair and red eyes just can't belong in that society, could they? Everything was in German on that side of the wall, and the living standard was gorgeously high. It wasn't uncommon for him to wish his younger brother went back over to West Side and make a good life for himself, but that would be counterproductive since his job placed him in a position in direct opposition to that way of life and government. He had vowed to destroy the Empire after all, so keeping his brother close was only a plus factor.

Splayed on his desk were files, every known file he could find through his connections, on the R.N.M, specifically about the man behind the organization. Ivan Braginsky was a hard man to come by, even he knew that much. The Russian was just about his age, give or take a year or two. With his sweet-looking face, he looked younger than twenty-years. Large violet eyes and round, childishly fat cheeks, it was hard to believe that this guy used to share a profession with him. Then again, any person in the Hornets' Nest was open game as an assassin, even the most innocent and young of children. If they could hold a gun, they had dried blood on their hands, seen or not. There was something about the Russian that he could connect to though; something in those innocent lavender eyes that looked back at him through the all the images, be them poor quality, black-and-white, grainy imaging. It wasn't the lighting, because it was always there despite the changing scenes of the two dozen photos of the man he had acquired through money and favors. That look of the abyss that dwelled in the depths of their irises, an abyss filled to the very brim with hatred, rage, isolation, and terror. Hatred for those against them. Rage for those around them. Isolation from what was within them. Terror from it all.

"So," he mused, letting out a heavy breath of smoke from his cigarette that was held limply between his pale lips, "you too?" He leaned back in his seat, the candle on the desk the only light in the entire building under their strict curfews that were placed six years ago to minimize terrorist activities. Obviously it did little good seeing as there were now about thirty different terrorist sects all working in union, including the corporation ran by Roderich Edelstein to aid in the collapse of the government for his own purposes. His red eyes looked up to the cracked plain white ceiling, the wavering flame of the dying candle projected dancing shadows into the darkest courners.

* * *

><p><em>Fire.<em>

_The laughing, taunting shadows dancing on the walls. The light of the candle pains his eyes, but he cannot look away. Even if he were to screw them shut, he would have the horror of hearing her screams. Not even having the dignity to bear witness to her agony. Oh how he wants to save her. How he wants to kill them all, the tears of rage pricking his eyes, his arms are tied behind his back as he is thrown to the worn, wooden floor, ankles equally bound. His best friend, her brown hair pulled on, her clothing ripped._

"_Let her go fuckers!" he screams, tugging against his restraints until he feels his wrists bleed, but even then he refuses to give up._

_Laughter; mocking, teasing, cruel laughter. If his limbs were free then he would rip out their throat with his bare hands. They couldn't stop him if he was loose!_

"_You haven't learned your lesson yet if you still look at me with those eyes. Do you remember the purpose of this lesson?"_

"_Let her go!" his vocal cords strain and crack under the abuse he put on his voice with his screams. They had beaten her, whipped her, spat on her. Never did he think he would live to see her cry, but there she was, hands and legs likewise bound, tears streaming down her face as she was forced to stand upon a chair, a noose around her neck._

_They tisk their tongue, "So emotional . . . too emotional."_

_The hollow scraping of wood, the snap of the taut rope._

* * *

><p>"Jesus!" he hissed, sweat beading his forehead and upper lip as he gasped for breath. The cig had fallen from his lips and had burned his hand, waking him from the nightmares of the night time hours that plagued him. Quickly, he ground out the butt and threw the used end into the waste bin. The candle had burnt out recently, a slender trail of smoke floating up to the ceiling. His red eyes adjusted to the din, the only light being the thin slivers of the moon that struggled through the thin curtains. Locking onto the only coloured photo he had managed, he looked back from it to the mirror across the room.<p>

"Yes . . . you too."


	3. Subject Files: Gilbert Beilschmidt

**Subject 0629**

**Defected at birth with a genetic mutation causing albinism, the parents cooperated with the government and placed subject into Facility 99. On subject's sixth birthday, subject was moved to Facility 201, situated in what was once known as Ukraine. Family believes child has died from the pandemic sweeping through East Germania.**

* * *

><p><strong>Subject 0629 displays odd behaviorisms. Originally written off as an excellent candidate by Dr. Eduard von Bock due to his aloof attitude and violent nature, subject, when believing he is alone, has a compassionate side. A few days before, our cameras attained video footage of 0629 finding an injured bird. Whereas other subjects would readily kill the bird to put it out of its misery, as taught by Facility instruction, 0629 coddled the creature and built a small nest for it out of twigs and leaves, tearing off a section of subject's pant leg and wrapping up the broken wing carefully. Such tenderness may prove to be a problem in the future, and I fear that subject's emotional state is extremely delicate from the teachings introduced to him since young childhood.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Subjects 0629 and 3018 seem to be forming a relationship. They have been seen in the cafeteria eating together and evading security during rest time. As expected, the top candidate for the Project is still displaying signs of compassion and friendship. Dr. von Bock has decided to take personal interest in 0629's learning and will be teaching him twice a week to eradicate unwanted emotions.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>0629's diary was found in his room during one of his lessons. The excerpts written are disturbing to those involved in Project Firestorm. The candidates have been thinned to one from each facility and Dr. von Bock had chosen Subject 0629 as Facility 201's greatest test subject, however, rebellion seems to be on 0629's thoughts.<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Day XXX<em>

_I hate my name, 629, what sort of name is that? A girl I met during Rest Time, the guards call her 3018, found her real name. She said she hated the numbers too, so she found a path that was hidden to all the cameras and found her name in the records. I'm supposed to call her Elizabeta now. It's strange to think of having a name. I mean a real name, an identity. Only the doctors had names I thought, but since Elizabeta has a name, I must have one too, right? We're going to go and find it during Rest Time._

* * *

><p><em>Day XXX<em>

_Say hello to Gilbert Beilschmidt! That's my name! Can you believe it! Gilbert, it sounds so strange, but I can look into the mirror again and not feel ashamed! I am a person, this proves it! Elizabeta and I got into an argument over whose name was cooler, but seriously, how can anything be cooler than Gilbert Beilschmidt! Though she calls me Gilbo and that just sounds . . . I don't know, but it sounds wrong somehow. And we named my little bird Gilbird, after me! I have never smiled so much, I must look crazy. I don't care anymore, once I'm old enough, I'll leave this place and go find my family. I'll show them I'm not dead!_

* * *

><p><em>Day XXX<em>

_Dr. von Bock started lessons today. I hate him. I hate all of them. They smile fake smiles and look at me as though I am a possession that can be owned. I'm tainted, defected. Is it my fault then? If I had been born with blue eyes, not red, would any of this have happened?_

_Dr. von Bock killed Gilbird. I hate myself for ever saving him._

* * *

><p><em>Day XXX<em>

_Elizabeta and I are not going to wait for us to be let out, we're going to escape, tonight._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Subjects 0629 and 3018 were apprehended late in the night and punished by myself while attempting an escape. This morning, when I went to check up on them, 3018 was still in her room, however 0629 was missing. After a thorough search of the facility, it was confirmed that 0629 had escaped. Because of the precautions we set in place to ensure no questioning on behalf of the family's part, we cannot send out notices or wanted posters. Even if we did, I believe that, due to the training he received; he would easily evade the authorities. His combat skills are equivalent to that of the military Special Forces. I am not exceptionally upset however, since Facility 004's top candidate fled a few weeks before. Our next candidate, 3018, will be trained and ready by the time of Project Firestorm, there will be no delays.<strong>_


	4. Log 2: Compassion

"I'm heading out today Ludwig," he called, grabbing his large coat. It hadn't been long since his last job, which was very unusual. Still, he was sent the message over his secure ling, which meant that it was a quickie, nothing elaborate or anything along those lines. That or he was becoming a favourite. Not that he minded, it had always been a stickler for him, wanting to be prized and wanted. It was a childish hindrance, but one he found linked him to the normal world his brother lived through.

The younger looked up from the morning paper, confused, "Didn't you just get back from your business trip? Where are you off to today?"

"Just some errands for the office," he laughed, pulling out the slender briefcase, "don't get all jumpy about it, just some quick jobs here and there. I'll be back before dinner, so don't hurry home."

"Sounds like you want to get rid of me," the blonde huffed, straightening out the newspaper. His brother was part of some company that was rumoure3d to support terrorist groups, but he was really only the runner, sending messages back and forth. The less he was involved in the company, the better as far as Ludwig was concerned. All he did was look out for his immature big brother. It had been a miracle to even find him alive. The three dogs lounged around his chair, Aster, the old golden retriever, huffed at their bantering, wanting only to sleep the day away.

Gilbert laughed, messing up the slicked back hair with his hand, digging the palm into his brother's scalp, "I simply meant don't hurry home to cook. Today is my day in the kitchen, so I'll be back in time. Anyway, I gotta head out, see you later Luddy~!" The blonde glared daggers at the door, animosity washing over him in waves. That brother of his was _asking_ to get his ass kicked.

* * *

><p><em>Prussia, I apologize for contacting you again so soon, but Mr. Braginsky has another job for you. The man you killed was indeed a leak; however it appears that there are still four members left involved in this separatist group. They call themselves the Avenging Angels, or AA. Currently one AA member is meeting with a forensics specialist, trying to determine who knocked off Mr. González. They will be meeting together at a public park, kill them both without any civilian casualties. Good luck.<em>

* * *

><p>With his hood up and shades on, he stood on the flat roof of a supply store. They were hard to find, most likely sitting in a wide open area with a clear view of the street. He scoffed; they were getting scared so soon? How disgustingly pathetic. His eyes suddenly zoned in on a person walking hurriedly through the park, children were all around, laughing and playing. He was quickly losing sight of the man though, from this angle, a shroud of trees blocked his line of sight. Taking a running start, he secured the strap of his case across his chest before reaching the slightly raised cement wall that jutted out of the perimeter of the roof, kicking off with inhumane power. He felt weightless in the air, his arms held out parallel to the ground as he flipped forward, maintaining balance and control of his decent.<p>

His boots almost silently touched the roof of the next building, slightly shorter than the shop next door. He had a much better line of sight, the trees now barely covering over his targets. One was a blonde with bright violet eyes; he looked young being short, no taller than five-six in comparison to the other man, whom he would assume to be the AA member, a dark haired man with fair skin. He had been sent an image of the man with the request. A Bulgarian, Milen Velichkov, a member of the R.N.M for over three years, all that time he'd been leaking information. And the forensics he was meeting, this far in the Hornet's Nest, was Finnish. How stupid could they be?

Slipping the leather strap over his head, he set up his preferred gun, a Remington M24. The Black Market was excellent at getting a hold of overseas weaponry; this beauty came with a discount as well; one of the few perks of working for Edelstein. He lowered himself into a prone position, the BUSHNELL scope zoning in on his targets. From this angle he had a clear view of the Finnish man, talking earnestly to the taller. If he fired through the upper part of the blonde's partial bone, the velocity could easily carry over into the thinner, temporal bone of the AA member.

Settling down into the small world of the scope, he aimed carefully; then froze, the Bulgarian had leaned back. Damn it! He nibbled lazily on the inside courner of his lips, patiently waiting for his next opportunity. The dark haired man suddenly sat up, now was his chance! No, wait, a child, a young blonde with bright blue eyes ran up to them, handing a flower to the Finnish man who smiled warmly, playing as a caring person. Whose child was that? He had no information on the forensics specialist, simply a name. The two hugged and the blonde returned to the optimal position. Now or never. The rule was no civilian _casualties_. He blinked, pulled the trigger. Everything silenced on the street, his ears ringing faintly from the gunshot. In the park there was a spray of blood, glorious crimson rain.

Then the screams of a child.

* * *

><p>"Velichkov has been eliminated sir, as well as his informant. No civilian casualties, as you said. The Finnish man, Tino Väinämöinen was with his eight-year-old son at the time of the assassination. I simply worry about how this may change future events."<p>

His report was met by uncontrolled laughter, such a strong fit of giddy laughter bubbling up from behind the large oak desk. The room was windowless, the leader of their resistance movement a wanted man. He delicately placed his pale fingers together, smiling broadly, "He is a special one, isn't he Toris?"

The brunette secretary looked away shyly, smiling half-heartedly, "Nothing stands between him and his job . . . that's apparent . . ."

"I must say, I never thought he would excel, especially after what was written in his files about his compassionate nature. Nonetheless it is a pleasant surprise."

"Ivan?"

"I wish to meet him, in person. I am sure there is much we can talk about."


	5. Log 3: 004

"Veh, good morning Mr. Edelstein," the young Italian smiled warmly. Dressed in his faded brown pants and well-worn button-up shirt, no one would guess he worked for the wealthiest man on East Side. He was so bright and cheerful, even the aloof Roderich couldn't help but return a small smile, though entirely genuine.

"Good morning Feliciano," the Austrian greeted, taking the cup of coffee offered to him on the silver tray, "How are you today?"

The brunette kept his sweet smile as he laid out the expensive utensils for his employer, though this wasn't exactly part of his job. "Very good, the new pastries are selling well and Lovino found another job, this one I'm sure he'll keep." Roderich chuckled and nodded understandingly as he took a sip, not bothering to mention that he said those same words every time and somehow the older Italian always managed to get fired. Even Roderich couldn't bring himself to offer a job for the temperamental, crude, loud Lovino he had met only a sparse handful of times. "Oh and Gilbert is upstairs."

He almost choked on the drink. Sputtering and coughing, holding a napkin to his thin lips, he gave a weary look to his employee, "Did he say _why_?" Feliciano shook his head curiously, not one to know exactly what Roderich did for his own living, or to pry into it. Standing with an exasperated sigh, he would have to wait to eat his morning meal. "I'll meet him in my office, this may take a while."

Confused amber eyes watched him exit the room, even as h nodded. With a sigh and his casual smile returned, he shrugged and covered over the hot cereal to keep it warm. He liked Gilbert, the albino gave him good business and stood around to talk and joke. His brother was frightening though, the tall blonde government official who oversaw police and civil affairs. There was always something cold and emotionless about him, aloof to the rest of the world besides his job and brother. A soft shiver went down the Italian's spine. There was something he didn't quite like about Ludwig, but he couldn't place his finger on it.

* * *

><p>Roderich deemed it preferable to wait in his office for the albino to be called down, but the door was slightly open, something he never did, and the sound of someone shifting their weight in a leather chair, the swivel of them spinning in circles drifted out into the hall. A sudden tiredness came over him; working with Gilbert Beilschmidt was always a hassle, especially with their familiarity. Opening the door, he found his assassin sitting in his chair, hanging onto the comfortable armrests as he kicked himself in circles, at first chuckling, then slowly becoming a groan as he became dizzy. Roderich remained in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched with little amusement until the chair came to a slow halt, the back faceing him.<p>

"Ugh," Gilbert moaned in pain, "I'm gonna be sick."

"Done so soon?" Roderich interrupted him, causing the silverlette to peek reluctantly over the high back of the deep brown leather chair. "If you are quite finished, I'd like to have my chair back and know what you want so I can get back to my breakfast."

Gilbert stood, a little shaky from his childishness, and sat on the edge of the desk, "You've become a real bore in your old age; you know that?"

"You say that every time you come for one of your useless visits," the brunette settled himself in the chair, thankful that this time the German had enough sense not to adjust the height settings, it took him forever to correct last time.

Swinging his feet in time like a metronome, the belted combat boots clean for once, "This time I actually have something I wanted to discuss with you that I find rather important." The change in stature was noticeable, the slight straightening of his back and the way he squared his shoulders, but most of all how he traced the Iron Cross the thick fabric of the necklace more than just a fashion statement. Pulling a picture out of the hidden pocket in his sleeves, he laid it flat on the polished oak desk he sat on, watching Roderich carefully.

The brunette glanced up, not liking where this was going, before sliding the photograph towards him, flipping it over. "Where did you get this?"

"My world isn't as small as you think," Gilbert informed him vaguely waving his hand airily, not caring for the question, "Did you know?"

Gazing into the picture Roderich sighed, sitting back in his chair, "It's too early for these games Gilbert, especially when you interrupt my breakfast."

"Did you know . . .?"

There was a tense silence for a little while longer. "Yes, that's the only reason I contacted you specifically for a job this high-stake. I dropped your name to his second-in-command and he latched on possessively. He asked excessively about you."

"And how did you find out?" Gilbert raised a slender brow questioningly, though his tension radiated in waves. No, more like contained excitement. Roderich knew exactly what the albino wanted.

Opening one of his many drawers, he pulled out a file and slapped it down over the photograph, stamped across the front of the manila folder were the words _Top Secret_, and underneath the red ink was the hand-written title; _004_. "You need to keep this here Gilbert, if you took it home I'm pretty sure Mr. Braginsky would find out and hunt us both down."

"I wouldn't want my brother to see this anyway, he doesn't need to be involved." He greedily picked up the file, tracing the edges as though they were made of gold.

Roderich turned to stand from the desk and leave the albino to his answer seeking before pausing, frowning, "So this is why you asked for a contract, to use me like you do everyone else, even after everything. I would have allowed you to make your own living, let you freelance outside of the company."

"I know, but this way I'm not just taking, you get business after all."

"And you get whatever information you demand," Roderich sighed.

Red eyes flickered to him, playfully hurt as the usual Gilbert came back, "You're not just a means for information, I'm still grateful for what you and your father did for me and I trust you with my life. If I didn't, you wouldn't be here."

"Of course. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be returning to my meal. Put the file back when you're done with it, and _please_ close the door."

Crossing his ankle over his knee, the albino saluted an affirmative as Roderich slipped out the door closing it firmly behind him. Knowing Gilbert, he'd leave the door open again when he went to leave, but the folder would be returned to the exact place he had taken it from. He was like that, with quirks about never closing doors to his exceptional visual memory. Worst of all, he was readily trusting; and in this occupation, that got people killed.


	6. Subject Files: Ivan Braginsky

"_Sestra?" a soft whimper sniffled as tiny hands pushed against the soft flesh of a stomach, "Sestra? What was that noise?" The room was dark as he huddled closer into the body, the arms still wrapped around him possessively, though the grip was lax, the calloused hands limp against his small back. She was coiled about his small body, hiding his face from all that was around him as he was curled in a tight ball between her chest and knees. Something warm and wet slowly pooled under the two bodies, staining his thin jacket and the old, worn scarf wrapped about the slender neck._

_Everything was quiet as he shivered, winter winding her way inside the small structure. Where was everyone, why was it so still? There were distant voices outside the izba, none speaking a language he knew. Fear caused the small body to shake, not being helped by the plunging temperatures of the northeastern regions of the Germanic Empire. "Sestra," he whispered, tears filling the terrified violet eyes. Finally, he attempted to pull away, gasping softly as her arms gave way._

_Sitting up, shivering, he found himself in a dark pool, the moonlight illuminating the room and reflecting off the pitch surface. Everyone was laying down, each in their own puddle, the door outside was broken and more of the loud sounds from before sounded off. People screamed, distantly, glass shattering. Looking down, his sister's eyes gazed into the darkness blankly, her face felt cold under the small, chubby hand, eyes widening, "Sestra?"_

_Boots crunched the snow outside, the foreign language calling back and forth. He retreated back farther into the ruined home, the shattered glass twinkling like daggers on the floor. Fingers curled about the blade as one of the outsiders caught sight of the child. Stepping inside the izba, he backed into a far courner, clothes and face stained in blood that wasn't his own, small body tense. A hand reached towards him, eyes clenching shut as he reacted._

* * *

><p><strong>Subject 1111<strong>

**The sole survivor of an Undesirable household who had been linked to anarchist acts again****st the mighty **_**Führer.**_** He shows strong survival instincts and understands how to protect himself as seen with how he attacked an SS officer upon contact. From what we can ascertain, he was protected by the body of a much older female family member. He knows no German, so his training will be delayed, but his file will be placed in consideration for Project Firestorm under orders of Dr. Oxenstierna.**

* * *

><p>He spun himself with the toe of his boot lazily, engrossed in reading the files. It was heartening in some strange way that more escaped, not just him. Fingers slipped under the leather necklace feeling along a series of small scars along the back of his neck; the product of rage and desperation before he escaped his own Facility. If Braginsky had not been found yet, then he too must have dug his tracer out of his own neck.<p>

"I would have expected you to be gone already," Roderich's voice sounded genuinely surprised.

Gilbert didn't bother looking up, "He would have failed in Firestorm, I mean, you would know this, you read the files. 'Subject refuses to initiate attacks on others unless over come with a need of self-preservation'. He can't bring himself to physically hurt others."

"This explains why - despite the similar training the two of you received - he keeps himself hidden and uses you to inflict pain on others."

Flipping a page or two in, he pointed to another entry, "But this one talks about his emotional instability, most likely an after-effect of what he witnessed happen to his family. The overseer even went so far as to call it a change in personality, from pure and innocent to cruel and vengeful. In this over state he'd attack without warning to whoever was nearest."

Roderich had read the files, already knowing all of this as he nodded his head, "What are you getting at Gilbert?"

"I'm just curious as to who hired me, but I guess not even you would know that one."

There was a brief silence as they both pondered a minute, broken up by the ringing of the secure telephone on his desk. Roderich reached forward only to have the albino in the seat snatch it up, "Gilbert!" the brunette hissed in horror.

"Hallo, Edelstein's office, how can we be of service," he grinned, ignoring his friend.

"_Oh, excuse me . . . is Mr. Edelstein in?"_ an oddly timid voice inquired. For someone calling for a gunman, they sure didn't sound like the type.

Twirling the wire casually around his finger, he lifted his feet up on the table, earning him a glare from his superior, "No, not currently, is there anything you wanted sir?"

"_I . . . uhm . . ."_

Roderich wretched the phone out of the albino's hand, "For heaven's sake Gilbert; hello, this is Edelstein. Ah, Mr. Laurinitis, I apologize for the mix up . . . Yes . . . Yes. He has a habit of irritating me. . . . Of course, I'll let him know immediately."

Gilbert huffed, crossing his arms childishly as he slouched in the chair, ankles crossed. He could only hear Roderich's half, but the way amethyst eyes fell to him at the last sentence, he had a feeling he'd have to stop back at home.

Hanging the phone up, Roderich gave a rueful look to his companion, "You really are troublesome, you know that? Anyway, that was your client. They have found where the remaining spies of the AA are meeting. The details will be sent to your PDA in a few hours with the location and time of the gathering."

"That so?" Gilbert smirked, holding his chin on the heel of his hand, "How unexpected that they want me to finish them all off at once."

The Austrian nodded, understanding the flow of thought, "Either they have a lead on you or something is being planned."

"Something indeed."


	7. Announcement

Hello, you may have figured I must have died eons ago. No updates in over a year almost, nothing quite substantial. I apologize. Many of my stories are being discontinued for various reasons, mainly because my sense of literary refinement that has developed over time no longer allows me to continue due to their poor quality. Of this list includes:

_A House Divided_

_Loving It_

_Singing Through Bars_

_Song of the Century_

_Bewitched_

_The Cage_

_Not Like You_

_Fallen Heart_

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><p>However, I have not quit. Over this extended period of absence, I have been outlining remakes of certain stories that deserve better andor more.

_Waving Flag_

_Don't Leave Me Here_

_In this Diary_

_One of Nothing_

_Code Geass_

Please be patient, I will soon have a first chapter out for my new work within the next month or two. I sincerely apologize. From now on, I will carefully plan works and not start too many that I cannot finish. Here are some peeks at the new, refined, mature style you will be getting soon.

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><p><em>Dance Among the Loti <em>(Waving Flag Remake)

"Many things fade," he spoke in a near whisper, his voice heavy with weariness, as though he carried some invisible weight, "Youth, beauty, good friends, even memories. Eventually, even the fact that once we existed tapers off to a mere whimsy of a person glancing at a name upon a gravestone, realizing it means nothing to them."

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><p><em>Crimson Tears of Lost Souls <em>(Don't Leave Me Here Remake)

Gunfire rained around me, seeming to bounce off the fog itself; it was thick enough, so I couldn't say I would have been surprised had that really been the case. It came from all sides, from out of the dismal gray, screams and distorted commands drowned out in the orchestra of explosions. Now and then, from the corner of my eye, I could just make out dark figures in the distance before they slipped just out of view. Sweat beaded under the helmet, rolling down my brow and the bridge of my nose, despite the chill of the bog. I made to swipe it as a figure appeared, this one staying. Rolling my shoulders, lifting the rifle that seemed to suddenly gain another twenty pounds, I took aim. Something was very wrong, he walked with a wide stance and appeared unarmed, shuffling right past me, seemingly more interested in something else, not even noting my existence. The second I tightened my hold around the trigger, a cold sense of dread filled me; I knew immediately I had made a terrible mistake.

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><p>I hope you will come and see my new works as they come out and continue supporting me and them. I hope to entertain you on an entirely new level than the works you have seen so far. Thank you.<p> 


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